


The Collector

by MizEmily



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bounty Hunter Derek, Detective Stiles, Future Fic, M/M, Skinwalker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizEmily/pseuds/MizEmily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People are dying in Beacon County. Correction, people are being <i>murdered</i> in Beacon County, and the only known suspect is a dead man. Stiles has seen a lot of things in his 8 years with the BCPD, but even a seasoned detective is no match for a skinwalker with nothing but time on its hands. Seeking out Chris and Derek's bounty-hunting expertise is his best option. Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Collector

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this is _Love the Skin You're In_. I take my writing very seriously.
> 
> Thanks as always to [i_feel_electric](http://archiveofourown.org/users/i_feel_electric) for the beta!
> 
> Rating will go up later, and tags will be added as they apply.
> 
> \--------

“Tell me again why we’re investigating this as a possible homicide,” Stiles requests, squinting down at the body of the young woman on the couch. “No blood, no ligature marks, no unnatural coloring of the tissue. It looks like she fell asleep here and just never woke up.” The crime scene—though he was loath to call it one just yet—is the most pristine he’s ever seen in his eight years with the Beacon County PD. Clean white walls. Clean beige carpet. The couch looks like it had been shipped from an IKEA warehouse just days prior. Even the dead girl doesn’t have a hair out of place. The whole thing feels unnatural, despite Stiles’ initial assumption of ‘natural causes’ being the culprit here. Of course, that’s why he’s the homicide detective, not the medical examiner.

 

“The, uh, victim?” the Deputy hedges, waiting for Stiles’ reluctant nod before continuing. “Name’s Martina Sota. Her friend reported her missing this morning.”

 

“Missing doesn’t mean murdered.”

 

“No, but the last person she was seen with was a guy she met in a bar on Friday night. Friend says they left together, and Ms. Sota’s still in the same outfit she was wearing Friday.”

 

Stiles sighs, pausing in his inspection of Martina Sota’s eerily undisturbed body. “ _That_ is more suspicious.” If Stiles were less cynical, he’d call the situation tragic. The dead woman is barely a woman, at 23.

 

Her friend, the one who’d found her that morning, is even younger. Stiles expects tears. He expects wailing and gnashing of teeth. What he gets is a furious, tiny blonde girl gesticulating wildly, demanding to talk to a police sketch artist.

 

“I _told_ her not to go with him,” she hisses, wiping angrily at her wet face. “She hardly even knew his _name—_ ”

 

“Which was?”

 

“James. I don’t know his last name, just James. He looked exactly like the kind of guy who’d murder a girl he met in a bar _oh god_.” The young woman sucks in a shuddering breath, one hand coming up to press gingerly against her forehead. Stiles knows how she feels. This case is already giving him a headache. “Where is the fucking sketch artist?”

 

As it turns out, Martina Sota’s friend has a nearly perfect memory, and the amount of detail she’s able to provide for the sketch of ‘James’ once they get to the station is incredible. Dom, the artist BCPD usually contacts for suspect sketches, is good, and no mistake, but this drawing looks like a snapshot more than anything. Stiles can practically see the guy now: short, sandy hair; six feet tall; a little on the thin side. Dark, soulless eyes. It’s the eyes that get him. ‘Dark and soulless’ is exactly how the witness described them, and Dom obviously knows how to translate that via graphite. The end result makes him shudder. ‘James’ looks like any other guy you might meet in a bar, with the exception of the yawning voids where his irises should be. Stiles has had enough of voids to last a lifetime, thanks.

 

The sketch goes up, and leads slowly start trickling in. Most go nowhere, as leads tend to do, though a few people do remember seeing ‘James’ around town. He seems to frequent both bars and gyms. Like he’s on the prowl for a fit, young victim, perhaps? All Stiles knows at this point is the coffee at the BHPD is shit, and there is no way even an entire pot of that sludge is going to keep him going until six in the morning. Eighteen hour shifts _suck_.

 

He’s just dumping a sixth packet of sugar into a tiny Styrofoam cup full of Black Death when the phone on his desk begins to chirp and jingle. He’s never been able to figure out how to change the damn ringtone on that thing, and the sound makes him cringe every time he hears it. Stiles spills half the sugary muck in his cup down the front of his pants in his haste to knock the receiver from the cradle. Years of department-mandated training haven’t made him any more graceful than he’d been as a gangly teenager, much to his chagrin.

 

“Detective Stilinski,” he wheezes into the handset, right foot stomping the carpet in an effort to dislodge his soaked pants leg from his scalded thigh. All he manages to do is scrape the rough material over his sensitive skin. Stiles bites his lip and manfully does not whimper.

 

“Yeah, I- I think I’ve got some information about a suspect?” comes a soft, masculine voice from the other end of the line.

 

“Sure, sure,” Stiles nods distractedly as he grabs for a tissue from the box on his desk. Plus lotion. Now he’s going to have wet, _slimy_ pants. Awesome.

 

“That James guy. I saw the poster, and- well, you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

 

Stiles dabs ineffectually at the mess on his trousers. “Trust me, it’d take a lot to convince me you were crazy. What can you tell me about the suspect?” At least the pants are black. At least he isn’t dealing with burnt flesh _and_ coffee stains.

 

“His name isn’t James,” the caller says. “It’s Greg. Greg Matthews.”

 

“Okay. So you know him?” Stiles’ interest is piqued. He tosses the tissues into his trashcan and scrabbles for a pen. Finally! Information that might lead to an arrest. Stiles loves arresting people. The looks on murderers faces when he slaps on the handcuffs always makes him smile.

 

“I did. I… he was my boyfriend.”

 

Interesting.

 

“And what’s your name, sir?”

 

“Patrick Schwartz.”

 

“Mmhmm. Patrick, do you have any idea where Greg is at this time?” Stiles’ hand is poised over the top of his legal pad, pen ready to jot down information that might bring this case to a swift close. On the other end of the line, Patrick makes a distressed noise.

 

“That’s just it! The man on the sketch is Greg, but it _can’t_ be him. There’s no way. It’s just not possible.”

 

A chill goes up Stiles’ spine at the earnestness in Patrick’s voice. “Why isn’t it possible?” Something in the pit of Stiles’ stomach solidifies into a lump with the density of diamond. It's probably the coffee.

 

“Because,” Patrick whispers, so quietly Stiles almost misses his next words. “Greg’s been dead nearly a month.”

 

\-----

 

Stiles isn't entirely convinced that Greg Matthews is ‘James’. Mistaken identity occurs pretty often in cases like these. Even after he Googles the guy and comes face to face with what is basically a colorized version of Dom’s sketch, he's still on the fence. A quick call to the station in nearby Morgan County has him falling off that fence, and nearly off the desk on which he's precariously perched.

 

“So you’re telling me this guy was reported missing two days before he was found in his home?” he asks, scratching at the cold, wet spot on his pants. “Dead.”

 

“Yep,” comes the reply from the investigator.

 

“And his death was ruled…”

 

“Inconclusive. Medical examiner couldn’t find a damn thing wrong with him. Nothing came up on the tox screens. Heart, lungs, brain. Everything was perfect, ‘cept the kid was dead. And there were no injuries. Well, guy had a sprained ankle, but his boyfriend said he’d done that the other day on the tennis court, so.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Two mysterious deaths in a month, in relatively close proximity, possibly linked through the first victim? Oh yeah, there's something fishy going on in Northern California. And when fishy things happen in and around his hometown, Stiles knows better than to think they're coincidence. Happenstance doesn't _happen_ in Beacon Hills.

 

“I’ve got a very similar case here. Young woman went missing and was found dead in her apartment a few days later. No signs of foul play. It looked like she just sat down on her couch and died.”

 

“Weirdest shit’s always happening in your county, Stilinski.”

 

“Not telling me anything I don’t know, Frank,” Stiles huffs, tapping his pen on the desk between his legs.

 

“Wonder why that is?”

 

“Just lucky, I guess.”

 

Frank hums in what Stiles knows is agreement. Sure, lots of weird shit happens in Beacon County (though much less since Stiles, Scott, and Allison closed the doors to their minds and effectively silenced the beacon drawing so many supernatural creatures to Beacon Hills). And while most people would find that fact disturbing rather than interesting, most people aren't homicide detectives in rural counties in Northern California. Stiles doesn't think Frank has solved anything other than cold cases since the time that one guy went nuts and shot up an Arby’s in Ellison, and that was three years ago. He's _jealous_ of Beacon County’s murder rate, low as it is. Stiles isn't sure what that says about the guy.

 

The trip over to the station in Morgan County only takes about 45 minutes, since there are hardly any cars on the road at 4am. Stiles is really regretting not tossing back one last cup of coffee before he left Beacon Hills. His eyelids feel like they've got fishing weights attached to them. It's a struggle just to keep them open at this point. He doesn't stay to read the file on Gregory M. Matthews, just grins, sleep-drunk, at Frank when he hands him the thin blue folder. Frank's interest in his case may be a little worrying, but the man sure is helpful when he's bored. Stiles leaves with a promise to return the file as soon as he's closed his case, which he's sure won't take more than a few days.

 

A week, tops.

 

It's nearly 6 when Stiles pulls into the Shell on the outskirts of Beacon County to fill up the tank of his car and grab one last cup of coffee before he calls it a night. Morning. Whatever. The sun is just peeking over the horizon, painting everything around him a hazy, golden hue. He has to squint against the few rays that manage to shine directly on him, but he turns into them and smiles at the warmth that suffuses his face. When he opens his eyes again, he transfers his dopey grin to the pretty young woman at the next pump.

 

She smiles back, and then slips into her car and drives away.

 

Stiles watches her go, feeling his stomach lurch and roll at the flash of recognition that hits him like a punch to the gut. The smile fades from his face entirely. Sweat begins to bead his brow as his brain finally kicks into gear, and Stiles gasps when he realizes why the woman seems so familiar.

 

It's Martina Sota.

 

\-----

 

“So I think there’s a skinwalker in Beacon Hills,” is how he starts the conversation with Chris Argent, because, well, it’s true. And if he’s right, there’s no time to beat around the bush.

 

“Detective Stilinski,” Chris acknowledges. He sounds infinitely more world-weary than he did the last time Stiles had the chance to speak with him on the phone. “What a pleasure.”

 

“ _Skinwalker_ ,” Stiles repeats. “And I realize I’m not supposed to be requesting your, ahem, _services_ , but even I know when to admit I’m in over my head.”

 

Chris snorts at that. “Fair enough. What can you tell me about this supposed skinwalker?”

 

Stiles chews the cap of his Bic aggressively while he shuffles through his case notes. “Uh, let’s see… It’s taken the shapes of two people who recently died, one of whom I saw pumping gas into what I’m assuming is a stolen car about an hour ago. Didn't get the license plate, so.”

 

“You saw a dead person?”

 

“I’m not the kid from _The Sixth Sense_ , Chris,” he snips, rolling his eyes. “I saw someone who _had a dead girl’s face_. The actual dead girl is in the morgue. The first victim died about a month ago, but witnesses recall seeing him with my second victim on Friday night, and _I_ saw the second victim dead on her living room floor Monday morning. Now, I know once is an accident, and twice is coincidence, but—”

 

“Three times is a pattern,” Chris finishes for him.

 

“Yeah, and I’m not just gonna sit around and wait for the next person to die. I triple-checked the bestiary. Unless this is just one horrible case of mistaken identity, and the station coffee really is bad enough to cause hallucinations, then we’re dealing with some seriously evil supernatural shit. My dad and I can’t handle it alone.”

 

He listens to Chris sigh, and hears the jingle of what he thinks is a belt. Probably an ammo belt, knowing Chris. It takes him a moment to respond, but finally the older man huffs, “It’s going to take us a day to get there,” into the phone. “We’re in Utah. Wendigo.”

 

Stiles doesn’t prod. He and Chris aren’t friends, not exactly. “That’s fine. That’s great. Shouldn’t be any more murders in the next 24 hours.”

 

“ _Stiles_.”

 

“I’m serious,” he whines. “Really, thank you.”

 

Chris hums in acknowledgement. “We’ll talk about compensation when we get there.”

 

Yeah. Sometimes Stiles forgets Chris isn’t a hunter out of familial obligation anymore. “Payment. Right.” He’s got a few thousand put away for the first vacation he was going to be taking in almost ten years, but he can bear to part with it. Probably. “Anything I can do before you get here? My research skills are still second to none.”

 

“You have a guest room?”

 

“Um. Yes?”

 

“How many beds?”

 

Stiles does not like where this line of inquiry is taking them.

 

“Just one in the guest room, but my couch folds out.”

 

“Good. Hale and I are getting sick of hotels.”

 

Sometimes Stiles also forgets Derek Hale is Chris Argent’s bounty hunting partner. It’s an easy thing to do considering he hasn’t seen either of them in at least five years. He only ever speaks to Chris on the phone when he needs advice on dealing with supernatural nuisances. Stiles has almost forgotten what Derek even looks like. Which is whatever. They aren’t friends, either. He’s just put out that he’s going to have to re-stock his fridge so Derek and his ridiculous werewolf metabolism don’t eat him out of house and home, that’s all.

 

“Oh, well, _mi casa es su casa_ , I guess. So. I’ll see you guys tomorrow, then.”

 

“If we manage to kill the wendigo tonight.”

 

“If you manage to—” Stiles cuts himself off and shakes in head in disbelief. Wendigo. Jesus. He’s never gotten used to discovering new and terrible supernatural creatures actually exist, regardless of his past experiences, and Chris and Derek _kill_ them. For a living. They’re kind of like the Winchesters, only less funny. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever even heard one of them tell a joke. Intentionally, anyway. “Alright, well. Thanks again for the help.”

 

“Don’t make a habit of it.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Bye, Chris.”

 

Chris doesn’t say goodbye like a normal person. The only way Stiles knows he’s not on the line any longer is the complete silence he gets in return for his farewell.

 

“Bye, Stiles,” he mutters to himself.

 

Now all he has to do is make a grocery run and let his dad in on their little skinwalking situation, and then he can get some much-deserved sleep. Should be easy enough.

 

\-----

 

Sheriff Stilinski does not take the news well. It was probably a mistake to deliver it at 7:30am, and while Stiles is in the middle of the condiments aisle at Safeway. The lady who had been eyeing the mustard is now eyeing him instead.

 

“Don’t you think you should have told me this sooner, Stiles?” his dad shouts. Stiles has to pull the phone away so he doesn’t rupture his earmdrum.

 

“There wasn’t any _reason_ to tell you until I knew for sure what we were dealing with!” he hisses back, nodding apologetically to mustard lady. She frowns at him and edges away.

 

“And now we’re dealing not only with some kind of supernatural whatsit, but _Chris Argent_ , too.”

 

Okay, here’s the thing. Stiles’ dad hates Chris Argent. It’s not that surprising. The man did try to kill him that one time he was possessed by dark spirits. To be fair, Stiles had indirectly caused the deaths of several people in Beacon Hills. He wishes Chris had tried to find some other way to stop him before jumping directly to ‘kill’, but he doesn’t exactly blame him, either. The sheriff, though, had broken Chris’ nose when he’d learned what the hunter had nearly done to his only child, and was only too happy to watch him and Derek skip town after Allison left for UCLA.

 

Still, he’s going to have to try to get along with the other man, or at least avoid him. You know, until they catch or kill the thing _wearing peoples’ skins_.

 

He manages to calm his dad down by the time he finally makes it to the checkout lane.

 

“You call me the minute they get into town, you understand?” John sighs.

 

“Dad, I’m thirty years old. You don’t need to—”

 

“I’m still sheriff of this county, Stiles, and I want to know about any and all extra-legal activity occurring within my jurisdiction.”

 

Stiles stifles a disbelieving snort as he unloads his cart onto the belt. His items take up the entire lane. Chris and Derek had better take this thing out _so fast_.

 

“You got it, boss,” he says, giving the girl at the register a tight-lipped smile. Stiles can hear the clink of coffee cups knocking against one another in the background, and suddenly he feels tired down to his bones. He’s got another shift at 6pm, and if he doesn’t make it to his bed in 30 minutes or less, he knows he’s going to feel like shit for the next 24 hours. “I gotta run. And I _will_ call you when they get here, okay? Don’t worry so much.”

 

The sheriff scoffs, but mutters his agreement and a few terms of endearment, and Stiles rubs a slightly shaking hand over his face after they hang up. It’s been years since anything supernatural caused real problems in Beacon county, and no matter how much he wants his dad to relax and let him handle it, he’s not sure it’s going to be that simple. He’s out of practice, hasn’t had to deal with non-human monsters since the last time Chris and Derek were in town, right after he’d made detective. It scares him to be this unprepared.

 

“Suck it up, Stilinski,” he says, mostly to himself, and glances up to find the young lady scanning his gallon of milk giving him a confused look. All he can do is shrug, and pull out his credit card, and hope that Chris and Derek appreciate his efforts.

 

As he’s walking back to his car, Stiles’ phone rings. He answers without checking the caller ID, so when Deputy Holt’s voice rumbles his name over the line, Stiles feels all the muscles in his face pull his lips into a frown. And here he thought he was going to be getting some sleep. How silly of him.

 

“Sorry to wake you, detective,” Holt says, actually sounding apologetic.

 

“No, don’t be. Wasn’t asleep,” he yawns back. “Yet.”

 

“Oh.” There’s a momentary pause, and Stiles takes a breath to tell him to get to the point, when Holt finally continues. “We’ve got a possible homicide at 823 River Road. UPS guy found the victim dead in his foyer, there’s some evidence of a struggle. We need you as soon as you can get here. M.E.’s on her way, but it looks… it’s the strangest damned thing, detective. This guy looks like he died the same way as the girl we found Sunday.”

 

It’s a good thing Stiles is gripping the handle of his shopping cart when he gets the news, because the muscles in his legs suddenly stop working. Stiles feels like his whole world has been dipped in molasses. Everything’s being filtered through a dark, sticky haze, and his brain refuses to process what Holt’s telling him. Waves of nausea work themselves up his throat until he’s nearly retching. If he’d chased Martina Sota—or whatever is wearing her face—down, this wouldn’t have happened. This is his fault.

 

The words echo is his head on the short drive to River Road.

 

_This is your fault._

_This is your fault._

_This is your fault._


End file.
